


Baby, Look

by caitfair24



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Marriage, Parenthood, Pregnancy, Romance, dad!bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 15:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18919849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitfair24/pseuds/caitfair24
Summary: Bucky and his best girls take a family walk.





	Baby, Look

**Author's Note:**

> My submission for day 21 of @itsbuckysworld's Hello Spring 2019 Writing Challenge. The prompt was "end of fall."

Eleven pounds is nothing to him. A whisper in the palm of his hand. And yet, the weight of the world rests on his shoulders as Joanna nuzzles in closer, soft, sleepy breaths fluttering against his beard. Not for the first time, he wonders what she dreams of: milk and that stuffed rabbit, probably. Maybe him. Maybe you. 

Definitely you. 

Mornings move slow now, lazy in their gradual release. They start early, end late -- in hasty showers and cold coffee, for him, at least. And the wonder. Small snuffles that seem to bring the world to a standstill; a faint smile tugging at the corners of her tiny mouth. “Baby, _look_ ,” he says, over and over again. Another fascinating dimension of his daughter that makes Bucky stop and stare, stroking a vibranium finger over the elegant curve of her eyebrow. 

Tender interruptions, a life now built in softer words than he was used to. He’d been handed, two months ago, a new identity, made real by the revelation of _her_  in his arms, against his bare chest. An acquaintance made in the white anonymity of a hospital room, a world that shrunk down to you and him and the high-pitched protestations of his new daughter. 

_Skin-to-skin_   _contact_ , the nurse had called it. Settling him on the hospital bed beside you; he’d slid off his t-shirt, flushing with self-consciousness at the gleam of his arm under the bright lights. 

With practiced efficiency, the nurse had nestled Joanna in the nervous cradle of his arms, tucking her against his chest. 

Before the war, before -- before everything -- a few of his friends had had children. He recalled a pale-faced Frank Ricci, stumbling into the pub one night and handing around cigars with little blue ribbons; dropping off a few sandwiches to Jim Macdonald, who’d been pacing around his kitchen, boiling endless pots of water, while his wife hollered and laboured upstairs. 

Back then, fathers had been ushered into the living room, down the street. Packed off to work. Babies cleaned and neatened and wrapped in sweet blankets before they could meet their dads. But _his_ daughter? His daughter was warm and plump against his skin; crying out her evident irritation, it seemed, at being born. Beside him, you’d sat sweat-slicked and swearing faintly under your breath, the rhythm of a marvel still pounding in your veins. 

“Baby,” he’d croaked. “Baby, look.” 

Days were built of the tiniest of wonders. A burp, a wiggle of her fingers, the bleary-blue-eyed stare in the moments following a nap. Bucky found himself delighting in the strangest of things: he couldn’t stop buying her clothes, in particular. Minuscule socks with the days of the week stitched brightly; rompers and dresses and little knit hats. 

You laugh at him now, as he shifts from the bed, Joanna tucked against his shoulder in pale blue sleepers -- heading back into the nursery across the hall, presumably for another outfit change. “What’s it going to be today, Sarge?” you joke, reaching to the floor for the hoodie you stole from him months before. Permeated with his scent, it was a comfort on missions. “She needs to be red carpet ready, after all.” 

It’s a never-ending fascination, really, watching Bucky change her diaper, bathe her, play with her -- the tender, careful movements seem to shrink his frame, soften the harsher edges of lingering pain. A puff of powder, a high-pitched complaint at the coolness of the wipes -- and then you hear it. “Hey,” he says quietly. “Hey, little girl.” 

Something melts against your skin. Contentment, that’s it. Not swooping crests of bliss, of joy -- just a steady stream of _knowing_. Knowing that this heady, sweet undercurrent, bought and earned in watching Bucky Barnes reach for a stuffed rabbit, dangle it in front of his daughter’s face -- that would lay the foundation to weather just about anything. It was insurance; sand-bags at the ready, lest disaster strike. Diaper explosions, tantrums, stressful missions, the highs and lows of real recovery...underneath and against all of that, there would be this contentment. 

A white romper, bright red polka dots. A crimson knit cap that makes Joanna look like a little ripe strawberry. Still clad in just a pair of dark sweatpants himself, Bucky turns for an inspection, cradling her like a football, but far more tenderly.

You give him a thumbs-up, and then take her for a feeding. Two hours slip by in the same lazy pattern you’ve now become accustomed to -- and you’re not complaining. Pancakes for breakfast; you eye Bucky’s coffee enviously but sip orange juice with no audible complaint. And then the after -- watching Joanna slide back into a nap, snuggled against his neck, right into his beard. 

“Remember when we were at the hospital?” you whisper, dishes left unwashed in the sink, still sticky with syrup. Why would you waste time doing that, when you can watch your daughter sleep and run your hands through his long hair? 

“Hmm?” Bucky shifts a little, tugging you closer with his other arm. Presses a kiss to your temple. “What about it, baby?” 

Two days. Two days of well-wishers and flowers and balloons, trained experts there to answer your every question. Two days in which the world was a white room with a nice view of the parking lot, because even though Tony wanted the best of the best for you, it was nice to pretend, just for a few days, that you weren’t an agent and your husband wasn’t a former brainwashed assassin. Just two people reduced to trembling knees and uncertain actions -- entirely bewildered by eight pounds and four ounces of fierce, adorable humanity. 

Now, though -- now things are different. There’s still uncertainty. Google searches. Phone calls to relatives not necessarily older (in Bucky’s case), but certainly wiser. But a confidence has grown, gingerly woven into this little trio. As your familiarity with Joanna grew, so did the swiftness. The surety. 

And so you don’t bring it up now. Instead, you kiss your husband and tell him to forget it, that you’d forgotten your train of thought. Because you didn’t want to steal his confidence, replace it with memories of those fraught first days of parenthood, both of you stepping awkwardly into new identities. 

You know your daughter now, though. Know her just as well as you can know a person whose main form of communication involves intermittent shrieks and minuscule, flailing fists. 

She likes baths, but not washcloths, even the soft ones Tony and Pepper had had imported from Europe. Or Asia -- you can’t remember. But the warm, soapy cup of Bucky’s hand or the glide of your fingers through the little rings at her wrists and ankles always seems to make her burble. 

She loves walks outside, growing alert under the autumn breeze, even as she was bundled up in so many layers you liked to tease Bucky about his marshmallow baby. 

That stuffed rabbit, a gift from Steve when she was mere minutes old, had to be within her reach at any given moment. Bucky keeps a close eye on him, because he’ll never get tired of the way Joanna’s soft little fingers reach for his ears, his fluffy tail. 

It amazes you, again, that Bucky has managed to adapt to modern fatherhood so well. In the months leading up to the birth, he struggled with knowing his role in everything. Classes and appointments, shopping trips and all manner of strange devices and techniques. He tended to oscillate between an old-fashioned indignation and shy enthusiasm. 

When he takes Joanna in his arms, rocks her to sleep, changes her diaper or comes home from a quick grocery trip with eight new outfits and another stuffed animal in tow (and no eggs), you find yourself falling in love with him anew, in a slightly different way each time. 

You flip through a few channels while Joanna sleeps, exchange some lazy, chaste kisses and quiet conversation. There are a million and one things you could be doing with this spare time, and there’s no real need for Bucky to hold her through the nap -- but you understand. A man who has had so much of his own life stolen, so many memories tainted and erased, Bucky naturally tends to cling to the present. To savour it fully. Immerse himself as deeply as possible in every second he’s awake and alive and alert. 

Especially when it concerns his girls. 

But she begins to stir, hungry after a while. Grizzling until Bucky places her in your arms, kissing the top of her head before murmuring something about taking a shower. 

Your favourite place to nurse is by the large window overlooking the main lawn of the Compound, where it slopes down to meet the water. The apartment has, in your opinion, the best view.  Outside, you can see that it’s turned out to be a clear day, despite the rain overnight. Blue sky stretches above; there’s a slight breeze shuddering through the bare branches of the trees, and a quick swipe of your phone reveals the temperature to be actually a little unseasonably warm for a day this late in November. 

A perfect day for a walk. 

Bucky lingers in the shower, emerging in a pair of jeans that rank _high_  on your list of favourites, and a black t-shirt, hair towelled dry and brushing softly against his shoulders. You’re hunched over the stroller, cooing at Joanna inside, wrapped snug and warm in a fleece suit, a blanket tucked against her chin. Red cap firmly in place. The sweetest little strawberry you’ve ever seen. 

Without a word, Bucky grabs his black bomber jacket from the front closet, zipping it up against the anticipated chill. It’s not _that_  cold, and he’d probably be fine in just a hoodie, and you open your mouth to tell him so -- but then promptly shut it as you watch him glide the zipper, encasing him in smooth, well-fitted leather. A faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he realizes you’re staring. 

_Yeah, let him wear it._

He helps you guide the stroller closer to the door, and you reach for your own jacket, letting him take full control of the handlebars. He always likes to be the one to push on your daily walks which, as the weeks have gone one, have gotten a little longer and more leisurely each day. 

One hand on the door; you’re both ready to go and -- 

“Wait -- did you get him?” Bucky asks, rather sharply. It’s his usual concern, any time the three of you leave home. 

A mischievous grin bursts on your lips -- a coy tilt to your head as you stand in the open doorway. “Get who, Buck?”

His mouth compresses into a thin line, fingers tightening against the handle of the stroller. “You know. The rabbit. Her rabbit.” 

“Hmm...doesn’t ring a bell,” you say, with feigned bewilderment. “Does he have a name? That might help.” 

It’s an old joke. Something Sam started at a welcome home party, about a week after Joanna was born. Steve had proudly pointed out the silken-eared rabbit he’d bought for her, and Sam had made some sort of quip about him being enlisted, and things had spiralled from there. Resulting in a very unique nickname that you had eagerly accepted and that Bucky had...well...resisted. 

“Baby, look...”

“Nope. Name.” 

Narrowed eyes and a tensing of his shoulders. “Y/n,” he says, through gritted teeth. “Did you...did you get” -- he pauses. Looks down at the floor with a sigh, and then slides his blue gaze back up to meet yours. “Did-you-get-Private-Pookie?” The words tumble out in a self-conscious rush. 

Laughing, you draw him in for a quick kiss. “Yes. Private Pookie reported for duty at 1100 hours. He’s already in the stroller. Let’s go, soldier.” 

* * *

“Jojo,” you suggest, reaching down to adjust the blanket about Joanna’s chin 

Bucky shrugs lightly, navigating the stroller around a sharper corner on the path. Tony had a few miles of walking paths snaking throughout the Compound property, all covered in crushed gravel and leading through the woods, along the waterfront. You and Bucky took Joanna out for a walk every day, weather permitting, even now that fall was fading and winter bit at the air. **  
**

“Annie?” It’s classic, you think idly -- a little like Joanna’s daddy. 

“I used to date a girl named Annie,” Bucky says with a snort. “She was, uh...friendly.” 

You snap your head to the side, freezing on the path. “Scratch that.” Bucky laughs at your expression, kisses away the envy arriving nearly eighty years too late. “Joey?” 

He just shakes his head, resuming his steady pace, leather squeaking with each step he takes. “It’s cute, baby, but why does she need a nickname so bad all of a sudden? I thought you liked the name Joanna.” 

“Of course I do,” you pout, wrapping your arm around his right. Resting your hand on top of his against the handle. It’s not the easiest pose to walk in, an awkward tandem, but the proximity is reassuring, warming. “Was me screaming it out during labour not indication enough?” 

Up until the contractions had kicked in, the baby’s name was still up in the air. You and Bucky had even agreed to wait a few days following the birth, taking the time to get to know your child before naming them. And then the pain had bloomed fast and furious, inspiration growing in the breathless spaces between contractions: “Let’s call her Joanna,” you’d grumbled at one point, crushing Bucky’s flesh hand in two of yours.

“What?” he’d asked frantically. “What, baby? What is it?”   
  
“ _Joanna_!” you’d groaned. “Let’s call her Joanna.” 

At that point, you hadn’t yet known if the baby was a girl or a boy, but it hardly seemed to matter when caught in the elegant indignity of childbirth. And Joanna it was, when she made her hasty, squalling introduction. 

But at some point over the past two, nearly three months, you’d come to the conclusion that your daughter needed a nickname. Something cute, bubbly. You’d only begun bugging Bucky about it, though, yesterday. 

“I don’t know,” you say softly, reaching out to adjust Private Pookie under the blankets, too. “I just thought, well, you’ve got a nickname. Maybe she should have one, too.” 

“Baby, I’ve also got a metal arm --” 

You press one finger to his lips. “Do not finish that sentence.” 

Bucky smiles, pausing again on the path, this time to kiss your finger and then pull you into his chest. “Joanna Barnes,” he says softly, and you turn, cheek against his jacket as you both look down at your daughter, eyes fluttering shut against the temptation of another nap. “I never thought” -- he swallows, hard -- “I never thought I’d get to say that. My little girl.” 

Something heavy creeps into his voice, something that trims the edges of each word with a ragged awe. “And Y/n Barnes. Never thought I’d get to say that, either,” he chuckles. “Especially since the first day we met, you kicked me in the --”

“We were sparring!” you protest, twisting from his embrace. “I had to get you to the ground somehow.” 

Memory and humour, that’s always the way with the two of you. A unique kind of poetry, composed in inside jokes and four years of _will-they-won’t-they-why-won’t-they-keep-it-down_. And then Joanna. A surprise no one had seen coming, but that every one had welcomed with open, loving arms. And still you can laugh, tease. Even as you find yourself choking up over the sight of Bucky Barnes trickling lukewarm water over the tender curve of his daughter’s chubby limbs -- you can laugh with him over some past embarrassment. Some little footnote in your shared history, marked bright with humour. 

“Baby, look,” he says softly now, eyes drawn, predictably, to Joanna. You peek in; under the dove grey rise of her blanket, a rosebud mouth opens and closes, not rooting, necessarily. Perhaps trying to smile? Or maybe she’s just discovered she actually _has_ lips. Good for her. 

Everything she does will be a marvel to you both, you think, watching as Bucky unzips his jacket and then fiddles with the blankets and buckles in the stroller. There’s magic in her fingertips, wonder in her veins -- she’s got the both of you entirely bewitched. So much so that it’s no surprise to see Bucky lifting her, a vision in a cuddly shade of green. 

Carefully, first gently kissing her forehead, Bucky slips his daughter in the warm confines of his jacket, pressing her to his chest, and silently, eyes gleaming, you help by zipping the jacket back up. Smoothing one hand down your daughter’s back, where it swells under the leather. 

“Joanna Barnes,” you murmur. “Y/n Barnes.” 

Bucky smiles. Captures your lips above the smooth, peach-fuzz crest of your daughter’s head, a kiss that tastes of the past, the present, and the future. The words you give him, the claim you stake for him -- you feel his lips trembling against yours in receipt. 

It’s not the weight of the world on his shoulders he feels; it’s not eleven pounds, a whisper in the palm of his hand. It’s the heady, fervent joy of sharing himself, of someone _wanting_  him to share himself. And you know it; you feel it. In his every movement, his every action. 

He was meant for this, fatherhood. Diaper changes and late night dances; his hand in yours; “ _little girl”_ cooed in the middle of the night as he rubs Joanna’s back, paces the length of her pale rose nursery. The sight of her nestled safe within the smooth, black confines of his jacket, guarded against the cold. Against the impending winter. 

He’ll always keep his girls warm.


End file.
